


In The Moment We're Lost And Found

by alekstraordinary



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon Relationships, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Trust, Wing Grooming, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:17:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekstraordinary/pseuds/alekstraordinary
Summary: It was intimate. Terribly intimate, really, even though they didn't mean to. It started out of pure necessity, truly, and as the time passed by, it became impossible to just... stop. Only God herself knows what would happen to them if anyone, absolutely anyone at all had known that they do this, and that they have been for many years, many decades, many centuries.





	In The Moment We're Lost And Found

**Author's Note:**

> Good Omens and Ineffable Husbands pretty much own my life now, so I naturally had to write a fanfic. This is, hopefully, first of many, and I'm already planning more to come because I love Aziraphale and Crowley and their relationship just so much. I haven't read the original book yet, but this is what the show's narration makes me think of it, and I hope I did manage to convince the feel of the show to this fic.  
> The title is a lyric from Birdy's song titled "Wings", it's one of the songs on my Ineffable Husbands playlist, so I thought it was fitting!  
> Hope you'll enjoy!

It was intimate. Terribly intimate, really, even though they didn't mean to. It started out of pure necessity, truly, and as the time passed by, it became impossible to just... stop. Only God herself knows what would happen to them if anyone, absolutely anyone at all had known that they do this, and that they have been for many years, many decades, many centuries. And that along the way, its purpose shifted, and it wasn't just because they _had to_ , but rather because they _wanted to_ , even though neither of them would ever dare to admit it out loud. It was a part of their relationship, in a way, to leave many unspoken words heaving in the air between them, hoping that the other one would understand. They weren't good with words, or maybe they just didn't want to appear vulnerable to the other one. Even after so many years they still pretended to keep a guard around each other, though it was an act rather than anything else, really, the last thin layer keeping them separated from whatever it was that's been bubbling inside of them since the Garden of Eden six thousand years ago.

 

Like with other things, in this touchy matter they never spoke about it directly; it was only through such subtle gestures as a roll of shoulders or stretch of a neck in this very, very specific way that they knew that the time has come. The usual "lift home?" sounded exactly the same, not a single note in his voice changed, at all, but the meaning of these words was different, and they both knew it. They understood, and there was certainly no need for uttering it. They knew each other so well, after all. Well, only at times, seeing how they've always appeared to be each other's polar opposites. But in the light of this particular need, when it was time for one of them, it was also time for the other. And that they, certainly, recognized.

 

It's been easier doing this since Aziraphale acquired his book shop, as it gave both of them a shade of privacy and perhaps even a bit of security. It's infinitely more comfortable to engage in this ritual in a space that--in a way--was just _theirs_. Of course, even when they were on place, both knowing why they came here, the show of act and pretend had to go on. So they would sit, as they would on any other visit, they would talk, drink wine even. It's always easier with alcohol, easier to finally let go when your brain is clouded with what Crowley liked to call "quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol", as if they didn't always drink exactly the same. Then it was only a matter of waiting before they would move to the act, the matter of seeing which one of them would become more impatient, and usually, it would be Crowley. 

 

He'd never say anything when he finally broke, at least nothing out of the ordinary. Sometimes he'd just get up and walk out, leaving the door to Aziraphale's little apartment open for the angel to follow, or he'd try to pull his truly theatrical performance a little longer, sipping his wine casually and carrying on with whatever drunken nonsense he had on his tongue at that time. Nevertheless, he'd always drop the act eventually, rubbing his eyes tiredly or fidgeting with what he had at hand as the tapping of his heels wandered off up the stairs. It wouldn't be for another few minutes before Aziraphale would follow him; depending on the day, he would either leave the glasses and the bottles as they were and wouldn't bother himself with them too much, or he would take a moment to miracle them back into their rightful places, leaving the cozy corner of the book shop spotless. Only once that little matter was settled, he'd leave the shop and go after Crowley. Perhaps he was nervous and tidying up was just buying him the time to calm down.

 

Every time, he'd find Crowley waiting for him in the exact same position--with his lanky body spread over Aziraphale's own bed, his jacket and shirt pooling on the floor beside him, as his disheveled jet black wings rested slightly unfolded on his back. After so many years  Aziraphale was no longer able to recall why exactly it was that the two of them had decided to undress for grooming. It could be because they were already so close with one another, it didn't make much of a difference to allow themselves to be a bit more comfortable. Modern day human clothes could be a little harsh and straining around the bases on the wings, coincidentally where the little feathers tended to need the most care and attention. That was the reason for the undressing, mayhaps. There was no way of knowing for certain; after all, they never spoke of it. 

 

"My dear," Aziraphale would say sometimes softly as he'd set his coat aside to move a bit more easily. "You've gotten quite ruffled up." 

 

He'd settle down on the edge of the bed, careful to not disturb the position Crowley had chosen for himself as the demon grumbled, moving his head to the side to shoot Aziraphale a look with his amber snake eyes. 

 

"That's why we're here, isn't it?" He'd rest his head back on the pillow between his arms, pretending to be relaxed while his hands would slightly clutch at the bedding. "That's what we do."

 

"It is, indeed," Aziraphale would confirm, carefully sliding his fingers into the warm softness of Crowley's wings.  It’s always visible, and quite frankly tangible, how the muscles of Crowley’s back tense up at the first contact, how the smallest spasm goes through his whole being. Then there’d be a pause, exhale and some of the tension would be gone by the time Aziraphale’s fingers emerge from the feathers again. “I’m just pointing out that it’s… been a while.”

 

Then there would be another stretch of silence, this time a bit more comfortable one. Aziraphale would always do his best to keep his eyes away from Crowley's face, no matter how fascinating it would usually become with Aziraphale's fingers in his feathers. There is vulnerability in letting someone else take care of your wings and, certainly, both of them would manage to clean them out on their own, one way or another. There is also the alternative of going to their respective headquarters and asking a demon or an angel to help them, like most do. And if they weren't Aziraphale and Crowley, this is, without a doubt, something they would do. However, since the _were_ Aziraphale and Crowley, they'd go through this thorough process together.

 

The thing that one must understand about angel--and, well, demon--wings is that they are extremely sensitive. Of course, they are predominately used for flying and for advantage in combat, but for some reason, being highly responsive to touch had been something God had to include in her great, ineffable plan. We have no way whatsoever to know if, perhaps, by any chance, maybe, it had only been done to bring these two closer together. We are not God. We do not know that. The only thing that we do know is that whenever Aziraphale and Crowley would tuck themselves in to clean out each other's wings, these were the only moments when they were truly and wholly open with one another.

 

Not verbally, obviously, since those two would never openly speak to each other about the ineffable bond they've had since the garden of Eden. But the way they would act in these intimate moments said everything, because there would never be any greater or more significant way of Aziraphale and Crowley expressing their affection as Crowley simply letting his emotional guard down, and Aziraphale allowing himself to care for the demon wholly.

 

By the time Aziraphale's fingers would reach the center, and then further down the base of Crowley's wings, the demon's muscles had all already gone limp, or at least most of them. His hands would still be tightly grasping at his pillow, his jaw clenched as Aziraphale would hum softly, combing out the stray feathers and pulling the healthy ones back into their place and in their right positions. The demon's breathing would hitch from time to time, eyes peering open to give Aziraphale yet another amber glare. And they would know. They would know just how much this ritual of theirs was important.

 

Crowley might have always liked to pretend like he cares less than he actually does, but during grooming, he would quite clearly and openly express his contentment when it had come to an end. Now with his wings shining and combed out, he would take a moment to take a look at them, perhaps flap them once or twice, carefully, due to the rather cramped space, and then with a glimmer in his golden snake eyes, he'd say:

 

"Alright, angel. Your turn."

 

Without a fail, no matter how many years had passed, there would always be a quiet, sharp inhale, or perhaps a gasp from Aziraphale's side, as if he hadn't expected this to happen. Which is quite ridiculous, given that, as stated before, whenever Crowley's wings require grooming, so do Aziraphale's. Who knows, this soft gasp might be the result of Aziraphale being rather ashamed or embarrassed by undressing in front of Crowley. We, with all certainty, do not.

 

Aziraphale would always act shy, turning his back to Crowley as he'd unbutton his waistcoat and his shirt, hearing the slither of the demon's clothes when he, in turn, would dress himself back up. More casually now, mind you, clearly to blissed out by the comfort of having his wings cleaned out to bother himself with either putting his suit jacket on, or making all the buttons up. That's how he'd stay for the remainder of the night, with his shirt half-open, red hair on his chest peeking out as he'd move.

 

They would switch places once Aziraphale's shirt had been neatly and carefully over the back of the chair standing by his vintage desk. He'd lie down on his stomach, unfolding his snow white but quite ruffled up wings, wrapping his arms tightly around the pillow under his head. Unlike Crowley, who'd always glance at him boldly, Aziraphale had preferred to look exactly anywhere _except_ at the demon. Even, or rather-- _especially_ \--when Crowley's fingertips would run over the angel's feathers.

 

As much as during his turn Crowley would tense up, Aziraphale would do--obviously--quite the opposite, and he'd become gradually more relaxed and his features would progressively soften the more time Crowley would take with cleaning out his feathers. It usually would only take a few minutes before he'd be at the verge of--figuratively--melting, his wings twitching from time to time, and even a few soft sounds escaping his lips. Crowley would just smile under his nose at that, equally softly, as he'd brush his hands through the feathers carefully over and over again, sitting with his legs swung off the edge of the bed.

 

Their feathers would mix as Aziraphale's grooming progressed, black and white pooling together on the cream bedding, almost blending together into a shade of grey, just like the two of them would.

 

Once all the stray feathers had been pulled out and all the healthy ones had been pulled into their place and then smoothed over two or three times, just to be sure--or to prolong the moment, mayhaps--Aziraphale would give a quite content sigh before folding his wings away, leaving the space between him and Crowley strange big, yet infinitely small at the same time.

 

"Thank you, Crowley," the angel would say politely as he'd sit up in his bed, reaching for his shirt to pull it back again, buttoning it up again carefully.

 

Usually, this would be about the end of it. They would exchange rather awkward farewells, as they tend to do, and then it would be a long time again before they'd see each other again. Because, you see, that is another thing Crowley and Aziraphale would do. They would spend brief, but meaningful moments together before departing for years, decades, sometimes even a century. Perhaps they were worried about their respective headquarters finding out about them, perhaps they were worried that their own feelings would become too intense if they were to be together for longer periods.

 

Usually, they would depart and neither of them would know when they would see each other again. But, who knows? Perhaps this time had been different, and instead of exchanging uncomfortable goodbyes, Aziraphale would offer Crowley a cup of cocoa before saying "ah, I apologize, you don't particularly enjoy sweets, do you?" And perhaps Crowley would shrug his shoulder, say that one cup wouldn't hurt. Perhaps they'd stay together the whole night, just this once, during which Crowley would indulge in his favourite human pleasure and fall asleep on the couch while Aziraphale would read a book in an armchair right next to him, so close, nearly touching. Maybe even touching, at least for once.

 

Who knows? God Herself might. Sadly, we are not Her, so we do not.

 


End file.
